Journeywork of the Stars
by frozen-delight
Summary: They've made it to the freaking Grand Canyon, finally, finally, and Dean's not ready. [Coda/Missing Scene set after 3x11 "Mystery Spot". Giftfic for tabaqui at the spn summergen exchange 2014 on LJ.]


A/N: Written for **tabaqui** at this summer's **spn_summergen** exchange for the following prompt: "In between jobs, Sam and Dean would sometimes get a day – sometimes a week, if they were lucky. They'd pass their time lining their pockets... They could go anywhere and do anything." The story is set after _Mystery Spot_ and therefore ignores that by Season 8 the writers had unfortunately forgotten the beautiful fact that Sam and Dean _haven't_ been to see the Grand Canyon.

The title of the story is taken from Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_.

Many thanks to my awesome beta **canonisrelative**. You're a star! And additional thanks to my two super-inspired helpers on the sidelines, **Dragonfly** and **stardust_made**. All remaining mistakes are mine of course.

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><p><strong>Journeywork of the Stars<strong>

Dreaming's difficult, Dean thinks. It should be the easiest thing in the world, especially for a not-the-sharpest-tool-in-the-shed sort of American. All those silver lining, live-your-life-against-all-odds or similar crap-driven movies say that much. But even though Dean's seen plenty of them, from _Pinocchio_ to _The Truman Show_, they somehow failed to share with him just how to go about doing it. Could be it's simply a character defect of his. Wouldn't be the first. Or it's something you learn in childhood and no one was there to teach Dean at the time. Not that he blames Dad, or Bobby, or Pastor Jim. Teaching him how to throw a knife was naturally more of a priority.

Sam though – oh Sam can dream. Just as expertly as he can wield a knife. Every damn time that kid ran away, Stanford included, is proof of that. Does this mean Dean's done good, that he's taught Sammy something he himself doesn't know? Probably not. Probably Sam's simply a better person. He's made out of finer stuff, after all.

Dean's just a hunter, not a college geek, not a psychic wonder boy, certainly not a precious flower. Not being able to dream has never been a problem. So what if he catches himself sitting on the hood of the Impala, gazing up at the stars, the way they do every so often on a pleasant summer night, and finds he can't utter a single wish for the future? Next to him Sammy's eyes are overflowing with enough ideals and ideas for both of them. Besides, not being able to conjure up a dream of a perfect, sugar-coated apple-pie life even when hopped up on Djinn juice did save his bacon back there, right.

So really, Dean's not complaining.

In between wasting some gross-toothed monster or other Dean will clean his guns, fix his car or hit the bars to get drunk, hustle pool and flirt with some Lucy or Mandy or another cheerful, pretty stranger. Sometimes all three at once. Drinking, hustling and flirting, that is, not the girls. Not that _that_ wouldn't be fun too. But so far, he hasn't made it beyond the Doublemint twins, as far as numbers of participants go.

"Heya, sweetheart," he says on this latest break between hunts. They're in some seedy bar in southern Georgia and the girl pouring drinks is a petite blonde who looks like a promising companion for the night. He flashes a lethally inviting smile at her. "I seem to have lost my phone number back over there," he tells her, waggling his eyebrows in the direction of the pool tables at the other end of the bar, "can I have yours instead?"

The bartender laughs. "Oh, you're a funny one," she says before shifting her attention to another customer, but it doesn't sound discouraging.

Next to him, Sam snorts into his whiskey.

"What?" Dean hisses at him.

"Really? The most stupid and clichéd of all stupid and clichéd pick-up lines?"

"Shut up, Sheldon, I'm a genius. It's so stupid and clichéd that it's no longer stupid and clichéd, but frankly awesome," he mutters under his breath and then grins up at the bartender when she comes back. "I'm Dean."

"Julia," she says. "My shift's over in half an hour," she adds with an auspicious wink.

So far, it's pretty much standard procedure and it's good. Maybe even a bit more than that. It's the closest thing Dean could call a dream of his own: a couple of fun hours back at the motel, with Sammy considerately waiting outside in the car for him to finish.

Except for those shiny moments where it gets even better than that and Dean wants to snap a picture and frame it, even though he doesn't have a mantelpiece or night table to place it on.

Such as an amazing steam shower in a house they happen to be squatting in. Or an action movie night together with Sam in one of the crappy, impersonal motel rooms they frequent, with Dean carelessly leaving the crumbs of the pizza, chips or whatever it is he's eating all over Sam's bed and Sam grumbling about it, mostly to keep up appearances. Which Dean will unfailingly point out to him, alongside the helpful comment that considering Sam's looks, this is only wise since he really can't take any risks in that department. Which Sam, in turn, will counter with a sharp smack to Dean's head or arm or leg, whatever's easiest for him to reach.

During these moments, Dean can almost see himself living like this forever.

Obviously, though, there's no forever for Dean. There never was. He hasn't been a hunter all his life for nothing. He knows that there's no after. He also knows that there's not even much before that non-existent after. In those rare moments of … call it clarity or bitterness or just self-pity, what does it matter, where he's ready to admit to himself that his father was an obsessed bastard who put way too much crap on his shoulders, he wonders if maybe that's the reason he can't dream.

However, when the future he's never had gets taken away from him, not being able to dream suddenly becomes an issue. Dean's pretty sure there's an excellent script for how to live when you've only got one year left on this freaking planet, but no one ever shared it with him. Or maybe they did, and he simply didn't get it. Yeah, he's not that smart and bookish, all right? He would have needed to ask Sam to translate. That's what he should have done, too, he knows it. But he didn't, because… _right_. He's never been very good with asking Sam. There's a high chance that if he started, he'd end up asking too much, so it's better not to ask at all and let Sam do all the pushing, pulling, yelling, pleading… This Dean understands at least. Doesn't mean he listens.

And so the months slip by, slowly and surely, until Dean suddenly notices that Sam's fallen silent, suspiciously so. He's no longer spending every waking minute that isn't devoted to ganking some ghost or other buried in his books, frantically trying to come up with something, _anything_ that could help them. He's also no longer making a constant litany of promises that he will find a way to save Dean. From what Dean can gather, he hasn't even had any further secret little face-to-fiend talks with Ruby, not since those unsanitary witches back in Massachusetts.

What Sam's silence means, though, only becomes clear after a pretty pointless hunt in Flagstaff, Arizona.

Dean's just starting to hit his stride when Sam brings up a case over breakfast the day after his encounter with Julia. They're still in Georgia because Sam wanted to get away from Broward County and the memory of the douchey Trickster who'd screwed with his head for who-knows-how-many Tuesdays, and Dean thought they were due a little R&R, even if it was in some cheap little town in the middle of nowhere. So they hadn't made any plans beyond a good, long trip to the laundromat, and really? That's just fine with Dean. There's no sign of Bela and if they're not careful, they'll end up giving their own location away to Henriksen, who's no doubt still out there looking for them.

Dean's ready to try his luck with every pool table and bartender in town, but suddenly Sam has other plans. "Look at this," Sam says, pointing at the screen of his laptop and randomly switching between different tabs, "three people mysteriously killed in a hospital in Flagstaff and all of them have signed forms that they're willing to donate all of their organs. Do you think we should check this out?"

"Dude," Dean responds with wide eyes, spreading his hands even wider, "why are you trying to cut our beautiful vacation short?"

"Beautiful?" Sam scoffs, jerking his chin in the direction of the run-down street outside. "Seriously, man, this could be a really interesting one. What if there's a skinwalker on the hospital staff who's trying to have a constant supply of fresh organs?"

"Could be," Dean says, unconvinced. After all, lots of people are willing to donate their organs when they die. At least those who aren't hunters. With hunters, it's highly unlikely that there'll be any organs left to donate. Still, Sam's obviously set his heart on this case, and he's been increasingly on edge since they left Broward County, so Dean sighs and agrees like the awesome big brother he is.

As Dean had almost expected, the case turns out to be a standard salt-and-burn, no organ conspiracy involved, and it takes them a lot less time to complete the job than it took to drive there. And then, to top it off, even though it was Sam who'd wanted to get back to work, he now suggests that they spend a couple of days in Flagstaff, even though they've still got a clean pair of jeans each and enough gains from hustling pool to make it through the next month. Dean honestly can't see the point of engaging in stupid activities like stargazing at the Lowell Observatory when they might just as well drive on to Bobby's and see if he's got any new leads on Bela. Or on how to save Dean, while they're at it.

With a pinched expression, Sam agrees to set out for Bobby's. "But I'm taking the first turn behind the wheel," he says, wrestling the car keys from Dean's pocket, the bratty kid.

They've only been driving for an hour or so and Dean has just allowed his eyes to slip closed for the third time, when Sam suddenly suggests, face as innocent as a fresh-born baby's, that now they're already so close by, they might as well take a look. Like normal people. Like tourists. Dean just wants to punch him.

They've made it to the freaking Grand Canyon, finally, _finally_, and Dean's not ready.

As soon as Sam stops the car, Dean does punch him, because damn it feels good, at least briefly. Then he takes off on his own. He doesn't spare the famous abyss to his left a single glance. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the red sandstone beneath his feet and walks and walks. Eventually, he sits down on a large, coarse rock near the edge of the canyon and waits, though he doesn't really know for what.

It's kind of insulting that Sam, who's supposed to be the subtle, well-mannered one, just shoved a goddamn copy of _Dying Soon for Dummies_ at him and expected Dean to act on it. Well, screw him. Dean's not going to.

_All this driving back and forth cross country, you know, I've never been to the Grand Canyon._

Dean remembers saying that. Another picturesque location, another angst-laden conversation. But he only ever suggested it because he wanted to save Sam. Turns out, more than a trip to the Grand Canyon was needed for that. But has he actually saved Sam?

_How certain are you that what you brought back is 100% pure Sam?_

Dean scrunches his eyes tightly shut and shakes his head forcefully from side to side in a vain attempt to block out the ugly memory that's crept up at the back of his mind again and again since they ended Yellow Eyes. If he could, he'd shake it right out of his head for good. Because come on! Sam's been pretty whacked out of it since Dean's deal and even more so since that nasty Trickster business, but it's obvious he didn't come back as Psychic Demon 2.0, right? Right? Damn, it would be a hell lot more obvious if he wasn't drinking whiskey at two in the afternoon, working together with a demon and ready to kill humans without batting an eye.

Dean shakes his head again. He's just projecting, he tells himself. Worrying about Sammy because that's easier than worrying about himself. But that, _that's_ what he should really be worried about. Because the one who's actually, inevitably going dark side is Dean.

_You're gonna die. And this? This is what you're gonna become!_

Dean might not have dreams, but he does have nightmares. _You can count on it,_ Ruby told him. He doesn't think she was lying, though he hates to admit it. What he possibly hates even more, though, is the cool logic with which she explained to him that if Sam is going to fight this war without Dean, he needs to become like him. A thought that also seems to have crossed Sam's anxious, angry mind.

_The way I see it, if I'm going make it, if I'm going to fight this war after you're gone, then I've got to change. – Change into what? – Into you. I've got to be more like you._

It's unfair and wrong. Dean didn't sell his soul to have Sam turn into him. Sam could do so much better.

Dean picks up a pebble that's lying next to his feet and hurls it over the edge. It echoes faintly every time it hits the slope on its way down, down, down. When all's silent again, Dean picks up another pebble and throws it. Then another. Then another. Then another-another-another–

When he's gradually exhausted himself with hurtling pebbles into the steep, red chasm, he realizes that night has fallen and he's surrounded only by stones, silence and stars. It's outlandish and beautiful, in an eerie sort of way, a weird cross between the wonders of Mars and Middle Earth. Honestly, the whole backdrop is so surreal, he might as well be walking around in his own head again, a finger-snap away from waking up back in the Impala. For good measure, he flicks his fingers. A distant, short-lived echo, that's it, lost quickly in the mighty scenery surrounding him. If this is a dream, it's a really weird one –

_I just had a really weird dream._

That's the last thing Sam told him. Before Georgia. Before they came here. Dean only fully hears it now and it makes him want to take down this whole canyon, rock by rock.

It lies calmly before him, unmoving, unmoved. Like … what was it that Sam had rambled on about in that prize-winning essay of his back in his senior year, when he'd been increasingly peevish and withdrawn, refusing to come hunting, dropping weird, unsettling hints about scholarships and constantly making Dean feel like he was caught between two stools? Ah, yes. Like _journeywork of the stars_, that's what this frigging canyon is. Dean can't recall all of Sam's clever interpretations of the phrase, but for his simple-minded purposes, it's fitting enough. Because what it boils down to is this: There right in front of him is the canyon, the careless creation of a trivial, bygone day that now stands still and awe-inspiring forevermore, while despite all their blood, sweat and tears – literally, man, _literally_ – Sam's losing his dreams and Dean – _Dean is losing time._

Abruptly, he thinks that this is something he might have wanted. If things were different. The thought scares him. Everything he might have had. Everything he might still have. Everything he's never had… He's never been very good at this whole _Live Your Own Life_ thing, he knows. Sucks to finally find out there's one thing he's worse at than living and that's dying. So far, all he's been afraid of was Hell. It was already more than enough of a package, thanks a bunch. Too bad that now dying itself is what terrifies him even more. Dying, when he might also have lived.

The epic stillness of the sheer endless landscape suddenly becomes too much. He feels small and terribly alone, a mere grasshopper gone astray. He needs to find Sam. Right now. It's absolutely essential that he find Sam.

He rubs both hands through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. Then he gets up, shakes his stiff legs, dusts off his jeans and hastily heads back.

He finds Sam back with the Impala. He's leaning against the hood and gazing up at the stars, a bottle of beer in his hands. His first reaction to Dean's re-appearance is relief, closely followed by defiance. Then his face twists back into something resembling bland friendliness and he hands Dean another beer. He gestures up at the sky and says with studied levity, "Huh. This is nicer than I thought."

Apparently, doing a lot of walking, thinking and freaking out, both about himself and about Sammy, wasn't enough to quench Dean's desire to punch him. There's something fatally punchable about Sam when he's obsessed like this with coddling Dean and clumsily pretending that he isn't. This time, Dean restrains himself, though. "Sam," he says, feeling dazed, angry and more than a little sick. "Don't treat me like I don't get what's going on here."

"Do you?" Sam shoots back, desperate and surly all at once.

"You're all A-Beautiful-Mind-crazy since that douchebag Trickster fucked around with your head and you realized that you can't Gladiator me out of my deal, Russell-boy," Dean replies, ignoring his brother's flinch at the words. "So now you've turned Nicholas Sparks on me to help tick off some dumb bucket list, right? Well, newsflash: I don't have one. I couldn't care less about the freaking Grand Canyon. And I'm not cruising around with you on a stupid sightseeing mission for the next however many months, got that? Wasting spirits, demons, monsters, that's all I want to do, okay?"

Once he's made sure that Dean's done Sam sighs, in that maddening _Someone's got to be the adult here_ sort of way he's perfected ever since he was fourteen and decided from one day to the next that he was the more mature of the two. "It's not like that."

"No?"

"No. _I_ wanted to come here, you jerk. I've always wanted to."

Dean stares at him, hard. "That so?"

"Yes. And before you hurt yourself wondering why I didn't do it before, then," Sam continues, sounding snotty and hurt, "here's why: I didn't want to do it alone. I only ever wanted to be here with you."

The corners of Sam's mouth start twitching the way they used to just before little Sammy began wailing loud enough to wake the whole street. It's ridiculous and unfair that Sam's mouth has never forgotten to do that, even though he's far outgrown the bawling stage. Seeing it, Dean can hear the wailing rush through his veins, dark and familiar – it's guilt.

Another thing he failed at, apparently. Realizing that Sam wanted him to take him to the Grand Canyon. Well, Dean is spectacularly good at failing Sam. Failing to figure out what Sam wants – because, honestly, how was he supposed to know that his geek of a brother wanted to do something so mundane, and with Dean, no less. Or failing to give Sam what he wants even though he's well aware that Sam wants it – like that time where Dad was away on a hunt and Sammy was five and Dean was too stupid to steal him the bright blue ice-cream he'd set his eyes on…

Sam's rolling his eyes, looking exasperated and pissed. As though he knows exactly which train Dean's thoughts have taken and thinks that, once again, Dean got it all wrong.

But, seriously, Dean's not going to start feeling guilty about the first good thing he ever did in his life. Dammit Sammy.

"Man, why do you have to make everything so difficult?" Dean grunts, annoyed. Of course he's not just annoyed at Sam. Mostly, he's annoyed at those mighty, red stones and that perfect Milky Way night sky. Together, they make for an oppressive, overwhelming color by numbers landscape, composed of millions of tiny might-have-beens, with bonus glitter-effect. It makes it seem so easy and so necessary, to want, to dream, to _live_…

"What?" Sam's voice cuts through Dean's frayed, frantic thoughts, "I'm not the one who's being difficult! I'm not the one who's scared to die but never talks about it and pretends that none of this is happening –"

"It's not like that," Dean contradicts him, because even if it were exactly like that – which, to be honest, it pretty much is – doesn't mean that it's something Dean ought to discuss with his little brother. This is his fight, not Sam's. Sam should stick to the big fight out there, the one where you need something to fight for. "Why can't you see that I had… _have_ to do this –"

"Because you don't!" Sam interrupts him, voice too tired to belong to someone who's not even thirty. Sammy shouldn't have to sound like that. "How is it wrong that I die, but right that you do? Because I've watched you die over a hundred times, Dean, and it's felt wrong every single fucking time!"

Dean can hear the tears forming at the back of Sam's throat. Damn if he doesn't feel guilty now. Wistfully, Dean wonders if it's something to do with the deal – you get the life you were never supposed to have, but you can't enjoy a single day of it the way you thought you would… Here he is, having Sammy back, all he ever wanted, and yet, as the days and months rush by, all they seem to do is fight. Like they're cursed. Maybe it's just Dean, though. Messing this up the way he's already messed up everything else.

Sam lifts up his arms before Dean can say anything. It's a pacifying, careful gesture, as though Dean's the one who looks close to tears and ready to bolt. Well, maybe he does too. He's glad he can't see his own face. "I don't want to fight. Not now. Not again." Sam's voice is light, soft, astonishingly so for the Sasquatch he's grown up to be. "All I'm saying is, maybe this is my last chance. So just let me have this, please."

Dean opens and closes his mouth several times, struggling for something to say, before the full impact of Sam's words hits him. He's retreated to the safe grounds where Sam's the one who's asking and Dean has all the answers. Immediately, the whole world is a much simpler place. Dean relaxes against the hood of the Impala, his shoulder bumping against Sam's. He takes a swig from his bottle and then looks across at Sam, so young, so forlorn a figure against the stark rocks in the background. When Dean opens his mouth this time, what rolls off his tongue are the oldest, most familiar words he knows. "Okay, Sammy. It's okay."

And for just one moment, borrowed from the stars above their heads – because come on, they'll hardly miss it – it is.

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><p>Thanks for reading. Feedback is love.<p> 


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